To brighter scenes excursive fancy flies, The future smiles in gayer garb array'd; Visions of sweet domestic joys arise, As peeps the parsonage from the sheltering shade, The laugh, the jest, the fleeting hours beguile, While heavenly Music's softening charms combine With friends who bring good humour's ready smile, And hearts that beat in unison with mine. Not with one wish imagination burns, O'er proud ambition's slippery paths to roam, True as the needle, to one point she turns, The point comprising all I cherish-Home.. No drowsy dullness o'er the powers of mind. I weave the verse, and woo the playful Muse. Borne on her wing, 'mid fairy climes I go, If such the calm, when blest with thee, I shareIf such the joys thy gentle influence showers; Can the proud Despot's tottering throne compare With thee, companion of my lonely hours? No; o'er his head, though Parian columns rise, So like the diamonds in your eyes, My lovely Mary. My tender Mary ; The hawthorns, Mary. They sparkle, Mary, E. M. Extraordinary Suicide.-Yesterday morning, between eleven and twelve o'clock, a Jewish gentleman, of the name of Levi, threw himself from the top of the Monument, and was dashed to pieces on the spot. He fell close to the foot of the Monument, in Monument Yard, pitched upon his head, and expired without a groan. The cause of this extraordinary act is said to be a failure in a commercial speculation to a considerable amount. He was a young man, and his character was respectable. Mr. Levi, when permitted to ascend, evinced no uncommon emotions, but appeared to the keeper of the Monument perfectly easy and collected in his mind, On Monday week, a person named Rogers, who resided at Gwennap, in Cornwall, sat down before a looking-glass, and desired a woman who lived in the house to call some of their neighbours, that they might see how cleverly he could cut his throat. The woman, supposing him in jest, paid no attention to what he said; but soon after she had occasion to go out, and found, on her return, that he had carried his purpose into execution, having actually cut his throat with a The unfortunate man expired shortly after committing the rash act. A Coroner's jury returned a verdict that he had cut his throat in a fit of insanity. razor. To increase the Growth of Trees.-By occasionally washing the stems of trees, their growth will be greatly increased; for several recent experiments have proved, that all the ingredients of vegetation united, which are received from the roots, stem, branches, and leaves, of a mossy and dirty tree, do not produce half the increase, either in wood or fruit, that another gains whose stem is clean. It is clearly obvious, that proper nourishment cannot be received from rain, for the dirty stem will retain the moisture longer than when clean, and the moss and dirt will absorb the finest parts of the dew, and likewise act as a skreen, by depriving the tree of that share of sun and air which it requires. A common scrubbing brush and clean water is all that is necessary, only care must be observed not to injure the bark. Power of Music.-When Yaniewicz, the musi cian, first came into this country, he lived at the west end of the town. One day, after paying several visits, he found himself a little out of his latitude, and called a hackney-coach, when this dialogue ensued: Coachman. (Shutting the door.) Where to, sir? Yan. Home-mon ami-you go me home. Yan. By gar, I know ́no-De name of the dam street has echape, has escaped out of my memory-I have forgot him. Vat I shall do? Coachman. (Grins.) Yan. Ah! you are gay-come now-you understand de musique-Eh! Coachman. Music-what's that to do with the street? Yan. Ah! vous verrez-you shall see-(hums a tune.) Vat is dat ? Yan. Ah? by gar-dat is him-Malbro'street-now you drive a me home-Eh! This is a fact. We have often heard that music hath charms" to do many clever things, but this is, we believe, the first time of its instructing a hackney coachman where he was to set down. Ode for the New Year, 1810. BY H. J. PYE, ESQ. POET LAUREAT. Ere yet, 'mid Rhedecyna's bowers, Not rolling there a classic tide, My native meads and groves among, Crown'd with our Sovereign's opening sway, And pour'd the verse to that auspicious morn, Which plac'd on Briton's throne a Monarch Britain-born, Raptur'd I pour the verse again, To hail the British Monarch's lengthen'd reign To celebrate the rising year, In which a King, to Britain dear, Bids every British breast, with grateful lay, Are lost amid the swelling notes of praise, Which, with accordant voice, a grateful people pays. |